


Licked by Flames

by SugarAndBone



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), game of thr
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Older Man/Younger Woman, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:08:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 20,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28281420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarAndBone/pseuds/SugarAndBone
Summary: My stab at King's Landing Sansan...you know the drill. Tortured, terrifying Hound looking after his Little Bird.****I'm aging her up to like late teens/early 20s, because otherwise ... YIKES.***
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Comments: 69
Kudos: 200





	1. singed

For two hours, the Hound stood outside the heavy redwood door of Joffrey’s inner sanctum, listening as the king and Cersei upbraided little Lady Sansa Stark. 

Sandor stood silent, motionless, barely blinking: Standing guard for countless hours in lumbering armor was one of the main duties of a man in the Kingsguard, and the Hound did it well. But, tonight, his feet screamed at the idea of remaining motionless. A nauseous, unhappy feeling gnawed at his belly, a loose, unnamable form of discomfort. Usually his moods were simple and straightforward: Enraged, infuriated, angry, irritated, really irritated, pissed off, bored, hungry, horny. And drunk, of course, though that wasn’t as much a mood as a state of mind, and one he found himself courting more and more ever since the damned Starks showed up at King’s Landing. 

And, tonight, the chance to find oblivion in a big-titted whore and a big bottle of wine couldn’t come soon enough for the Hound. For the hundredth time that evening, he shifted his weight to and fro, huffing out a large breath as he readjusted his grip on the handle of his sword. 

Not only were his statue-like abilities failing him tonight, so too was his ability to go deaf and disinterested whenever a conversation didn’t concern him. Usually he could give a eunuch’s sack about the current gossip of King’s Landing, and as such he never picked up the nancy boy habit of listening at doorways or tilting his ear towards whatever shouted words would pour of the king’s quarters during his guard shifts. 

But tonight, he was all bloody ears. Lady Sansa (though it never felt right to call her that, for she was more like a china doll or a kitten or a damn little bird than any lady or woman he had ever known) was being taken to task for her idiot brother Robb’s latest misadventure. Several of the King’s men had died in the North, and now, the little bird was paying their death tax with what sounded like a never-ending stream of insults and threats, and perhaps worst of all, several well-placed fists from Ser Meryn. 

Grinding his teeth together at the sound of the latest slap, Sandor wondered if Robb Stark had any knowledge of what his actions were having on his delicate slip of a sister. Or perhaps he had knowledge but no compassion or care. And indeed, Sandor was no stranger to the abject cruelty of a sibling, but he had to wonder what kind of fool would seek to incite war with a man who had twice the power and gold as him, especially when he must know the result it would have on his imprisoned little sister. He cast his mind back to the eldest Stark brother to picture him better as he damned him to hell, but truth be told, the Hound barely cast him a glance when they sojourned at Winterfell so many moons ago. 

But where he had been looking when he was in Winterfell, he wouldn’t say, not even to himself, not even in the recesses of his own mind. Again, that nauseous feeling of unease roiled his insides. Gods be good, he wanted this fucking night to end, this fucking eighth hell to come to a close so he could pump his seed down some whore’s throat and forget this fucking world for one sad, sick little moment. 

And, then, the sound of a heavy door straining to open, the sound of someone much smaller and weaker than him clumsily grappling with the brass handle—quick as a cat, the Hound left his post and with just a few fingertips easily guided the door the rest of the way open. 

Exiting under his huge outstretched arm, ducking under it like she was ducking under a tree limb, Sansa wearily entered the hallway. 

“Take her back to her chambers,” snapped Joffrey from somewhere deep inside his room. “Then fetch the handmaid to clean up that ugly little mess she’s made of herself.”

Giving a curt nod and shutting the door, Sandor allowed himself only the sharpest, most cursory glance down the girl’s frame before leading her down the hallway. Her hair, which had been perfectly braided and arranged neatly just hours before, was now ruined, hanging in loose, wavy tendrils around her tear-streaked face. 

Her mauve dress was dirty, with buttons missing and lacework askew, and the long sleeves were heavily wrinkled and twisted, their delicate silks manhandled almost beyond repair. He knew underneath that silk, the sight would be much worse: Bruises from Ser Meryn’s latest beating on her arms and torso, cuts and scrapes on her knees from her supine position on the stone floor. But her face, her face was angelic and as unmarked as ever, glowing from within like the candle she held in her small right hand to light her pathway. 

But despite her stoic, proud gaze and the way she held her chin titled upward, her hand shook around the brass candle holder, giving an uneven glow to the white marble floor as they walked. The Hound kept a quick pace as ever, never wanting to be alone with Sansa Stark any longer than he had to be, never wanting to cast any looks back at his timid, broken-hearted little charge who minced her way almost noiselessly behind him. No, he would not look back and he would not moderate his pace, for to be in her presence was the most wicked and consuming form of torture for him, one which he barely would allow himself to consider.

Whores. Big titted whores with warm, wet mouths, that’s what he would think of. Wine, and viciousness, the possibility of a fight in the tavern, shattering bone and spilling blood—he clutched these things in his mind like a prayer wheel, clutching at anything, anything, anything that would push away thoughts of the little damned bird behind him and her bruised porcelain skin and her proud, little quivering chin—

“AHH!” He heard her cry out in fear, then hiss in pain, and then the sound of the brass candle clattering to the floor followed. Growling, he whirled around. An acidic burning smell filled the air, the smell of burnt hair and smoke. His gut clenched. She was clutching her hand with a grimace as her candle rolled down the hall and extinguished itself, a small pained frown on her face. He fell upon her like a wild dog. 

Encircling her in his tall shadow, his voice was louder and more violent than he meant it to be when he snapped, “Are you burnt?”

“It’s only—”

“Have you been burnt?!” he bit out again, his voice unfamiliar in his ears, sounding almost like a caged thing and not a ferocious warrior. She looked unharmed, save the way she was clutching her hand and the faint smell of singed hair in the air. 

“No, NO, ser, I assure you, I am unharmed truly, the flame only licked my hair and I—I put it on in time,” she said, in a soft cajoling tone, as if she was seeking to comfort him. 

The thought of that filled him with shame and disgust. He was acting like a fucking scared little boy over a mere trifle. Rage clouded his vision and he cut her off. “Damned stupid girl! Can’t hold a fucking candle without catching yourself on fire! Gods, but you’re as dumb as they come!” 

Her mouth fell open, blue eyes flashing in pain and then confused sorrow.

“My hair, I forgot, I didn’t realize it was so close to the flame, I—” she began defensively, but again he sloughed off her words. 

Stepping even closer to her small frame, he grasped her by the forearms violently, causing her dark red tendrils to loosen from her braids even more than they had already. Her skin felt cold and smooth as marble in his, but she was quivering like a newborn doe, and yet it was his breath that was coming in huge, heavy gasps, as if he had just jousted an opponent twice his size. 

He felt fury blooming inside of him, but also a helplessness, a helplessness that felt as old and primal and broken as himself, and in a sudden movement, he shoved up the ridiculously long sleeves of her dress to investigate her tiny white forearms. 

Letting out a low growl, he felt his dark eyes flash, and he was glad that his long hair hid at least part of his face. Because beneath her sleeves, there were naught BUT scars, old fading marks, but new ones from tonight as well, new pink blooms and mottled bruises and dirt streaks from whomever had been gripping her or holding upon the floor. And he—he with his big, coarse, horrifically strong hands was grasping the tender flesh as if he wanted to tear the very skin from her. 

He dropped her forearms abruptly as if he was the one who had been burned. 

She stood frozen, arms still half outstretched before her, as if she was afraid to move out of the position he had twisted her in. Then, looking down at the state of herself, at the many marks and bruises upon her snow-white skin, she let her arms fall immediately, pulling her sleeves down as tight as they would go. 

A small bright blush highlighted her cheeks as if she was ashamed for him to have seen her scars…a preposterous thought, for anyone to be ashamed of scars before HIM of all people, especially one as ethereal as she, but there it was all the same: A humiliated little bird staring at the ground with downcast sky-blue eyes, her small, pink mouth opening and close a few times as if she was trying to think of the right words to say. 

Finally, she landed on something. “I apologize, ser, I didn’t mean to startle—”

“Startle! You didn’t damn startle me!” he hissed, then, feeling more than half a fool. He would be damned to hell before he let anyone think him afraid of anything, let alone a bloody candle flame. “I just don’t want the damn palace catching alight because of your clumsy ways.” 

She narrowed her eyes at him but spoke not a word. Without her candle light, the hallway was so dark he had to lean closer to see her, to make out the expression on her small, wan face, and behind her helpless lack of understanding at his rage, he also saw pure exhaustion. His gut twisted again. For two hours she had been beaten and scolded and shamed through no wrongdoing of her own, with no ability to stop the pain or save herself a single lash. 

And now she stood here before him, all quivering, gentle light, taking yet another scolding from a disgusting beast. Somehow this made him hate her. Somehow this made him want to put his huge hands around her smooth white column of a neck and just squeeze. 

Isn’t that what he felt, he urged at himself. Isn’t that what he wanted to do her, extinguish her like that very dropped candle. But no familiar loathing filled his veins despite his urgings. Instead, his heart twisted as if it was on a spit, burning him up from the inside out. 

But if it was, then why did his voice soften from a growl to a low, rumbling hum as he said, “Come on, little bird. It’s well past time for you to be in your cage,” and why did his hand softly find the smooth curve of her elbow as they walked side by side— and slowly this time, slowly damn it, so she didn’t have to scamper like an animal to keep up, so she didn’t have to mar her flesh one more bloody time. 

They spoke not a word until they reached the familiar door behind which Sansa was now forced to call home. 

Sandor Clegane had cut down more men than he could ever begin to count, let alone name. He had sliced open people like they were no more than a side of beef, let their entrails dip on his boots as he mercilessly sent them to their doom.

But, now, before this door, before this room which smelled like amberseed and cyclamen and all manner of things clean and precious and sacred, the most terrifying member of the Kingsguard was afraid to meet a little redhead’s eyes. 

If he had any self-awareness, any ability to know or understand his mind, he would know the feeling keeping his eyes trained at the door above Sansa’s head to be shame. Shame at his scars, inside and out. Shame at harming her when she was already bruised and aching and needing gentleness, kindness, a knight like one from the stories she was forever reading. 

But, no, he thought enraged, she got a monster. A scarred, ugly, vicious thing. A dog from hell, born in hell, bred in hell, made for only hell and marked by it forever so there would be no mistaking it. 

“If you will, my lord,” Sansa said quietly, so quietly he leaned in without intending to, hunching down so close to her that he could see an almost translucent smattering of light freckles from her new hours in the Southern sun.

“I would rather if you…if the handmaids were not sent for…and I could tend my own self tonight,” she continued, her voice quivering, her body taut as if posed for a blow. 

His brow furrowed. This was a request he didn’t expect, and something feral twitched inside of him at the way she was looking as if she would be hit for asking such a thing from him. He had never hit her, not once, and yet she was like a beaten dog slinking past any open hand, expecting a blow from every human she passed. 

He tried to keep his voice calm and unintimidating, no small thing when he had almost 150 pounds on her. 

“Your wounds need looking after,” he said, flatly, trying to keep himself from betraying any emotion, still ashamed of himself for revealing weakness in the corridor when she dropped her candle. 

“I---I—please, ser, I can do it myself,” she said, in a quiet peep as if she was almost hoping he wouldn’t hear her. “I know how…I know how now.”

His face twisted wryly at that. “I bet you do,” he said coldly, because how she could not after requiring so much late-night mending. 

Something tiny broke inside of her at that, a small thing, but it threatened to let out a dam, he could tell, from the way her plump lower lip began to truly shake in earnest, her blue eyes huge and watery and shining with pain. She thinks I’m making fun of her, he thinks, and why shouldn’t she? It’s a normal occurrence. He never spared a gentle word for her, never did more than look the other way when she bled and cried, never did more than left her running to catch up as he drug her back to her room after her latest debasement. 

And now she wants this small thing from him. Well, he didn’t like it at all: Not only because Joffrey commanded him to fetch the handmaid, but because he somehow found himself much aggrieved at the thought of this small redheaded bird trying to clean up her own blood, tying up her own bandages with her small, shaking hands in her dark chambers alone.

No, this thought left him shockingly desolate, and the desolation if not the mystification was more than reflected in the deep pools of blue before him. 

Finally, he hazarded to speak, though he feared his voice would betray his emotions yet again. “Are you certain, little bird?” 

“Aye, ser,” she said timidly, all courtesy and stoicism and tightened smile. 

“Would you not be glad of the company of your handmaid, as you are so…as you may require some small comfort?” he found himself asking, then wanted to kick himself for such a stupid, pansy remark. 

A little frown creased the space between her finely arched eyebrows. 

“My handmaids are not a source of comfort, no,” she said, with a chilliness in her voice that was new to his ears, and he again found a bit of a wry grin on his face. Good, he thought, at least she was wise enough to realize that her ever-revolving cast of handmaids were naught but snakes, Cersei’s spies every last one. 

“I can assure you many of the Kings’ men do not agree on that score, finding much comfort in them indeed,” he found himself saying, the bawdy joke leaving his lips before he even considered it. 

But if he expected her to cringe or blush, he was mistaken. She let out a sudden giggle, and he remembered in a flash she had brothers, and grew up surrounded by rough men, perhaps not as rough as himself, but far from the fancy, proper knights who now championed masculinity around her. 

He felt a warmth growing on the back of his neck, something small and living tremulously taking root inside of him. The feeling infuriated him. 

“I’ll send no maids,” he said with a harsh finality, pushing her door open and guiding her into it with a broad hand upon her lower back, being unable to help himself from feeling his cock surge a little when his fingers brushed against her small waist. “But if you change your mind later, you’ll have no one to blame but yourself.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode from her door, without giving her a good night or a single glance back. 

And later, when he drank too much wine, and found himself huge and hollow and hopeless in his bed alone, and then pleasured himself to thoughts of a redhead with soft skin and starbright eyes, well, no one knew of it, and he himself would barely hold the memory in the morrow.


	2. lupus in the sky with diamonds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Couple things: never read the books, only seen large portions of the show. So if some things aren’t accurate to the books (ie sansa knows of the scars from petyr not the hound himself), its because that’s the only way i know the story. Timeline will be basically season 2 ish but again im not really certain of times, dates and all the intrictiaties of this world, so eh: Sorry.

Sansa lay on her back in her small soft bed. When her father was taken prisoner by the Kingsguard, Sansa had lost her stately rooms in the coveted East Wing of the palace, and instead was banished to a small, dark tower of the castle where only the most degraded lords and ladies lived. 

Gone was the expansive solar and the massive master bedroom with a huge sunken tub, and the private garden with a riot of pansies and stock violets along its high stone bannister. In its place was a narrow room at the top of ever-winding stairs that seemed to lead on to eternity, but every step took her further from the royalty of King’s Landing and the king himself so she suffered the climb gladly. 

No, this room was a gift to Sansa, although Joffrey would rage to know it. She was glad to be in the desolate, quiet tower, not only because it gave her the silence and the privacy she so desperately craved, but because it allowed her the perfect view of the dark night sky. She had no solar and no private garden, only a small fireplace with a bed and a vanity crammed into a narrow corner. But beside her bed was a wide wall embrasure that gave her an unfettered view of the velvet constellations which lay just beyond her grasp, constellations that belonged to no man and no king but to the maiden herself and the maiden alone. 

Tonight, as ever, she searched out Lupus but the night was clouded, and she found only his hip bone. 

Lost in starry thoughts, she snuggled deeper under her black velvet-trimmed blanket, then winced a little as the new scrapes on her back came into painful contact with the feather tick mattress. She bit down on her lower lip and resolutely refused to let any more tears fall tonight. 

She shut her eyes and tried to think of something to ease her suffering, some happy memory to make a nest of during the cold, silent night. 

But for some reason, thoughts of her mother and her home and her Lady didn’t come to her. No—and this was happening more lately then she would like to realize lately—the Hound’s scarred face and gray, hateful eyes came into her mind. 

Letting out a sigh, she rolled over grouchily in her bed. Gods be good, she must be truly beyond all mercy if she found comfort in thoughts of the most ferocious man she had ever known. And yet—comfort was there. 

She never would have believed such a thing, not when she first laid eyes on him in Winterfell and saw the grotesque scarring which marred his face. But it was more than just his burns that frightened her. It was his massive stature, his immovable solid frame that seem to take up entire skies, and his dark, lightless eyes which seemed to be caves of hatred and despair. 

Yes, his eyes terrified the young Sansa when she first gazed upon him at Winterfell. Like a child, she had the urge to turn, to run away, to hide from his fierce visage, but she remembered her manners, or tried to, knowing that even behind her whispered courtesies he could sense her shaking like a leaf. 

But something had happened in the recent moons since her father’s passing. The Hound’s eyes still sent shocks of fear and dread through her, but not the way they used to: Now when he looked upon with rage, she thought first of what he was thinking of her, what opinion he had formed of her. And this, this was beyond comprehension. Why should she care what a beast like him thought of her? And yet, she found she longed for his good favor, his good opinion. Unlike Ser Meryn and Ser Trent and the other Kingsguard, she sensed that the Hound was a man apart, an outcast, much like herself. He was gruff and hateful and purely cruel to her, but yet, she still felt safer beside him than any other man at King’s Landing. 

After all, there had been times when he almost, almost seemed to wish to protect her. That day on the parapet, when she had been so near committing regicide, so near throwing herself over as well, gods be damned, it was he that stopped her. Stopped with a shockingly gentle hand and an easy excuse, as though he had no idea what she had been planning…but of course he did. His dark steel colored eyes had sharpened at her, not in chagrin or cruelty, but as if he was urging her to pause, reflect, choose a wiser, safer course.

You’re a fool, Sansa, she told herself. He only wanted to save his King’s life from the likes of you. Dumb little bird. How he would laugh at you know to see you pondering his possible opinion of you. He has no opinion of you. You’re just a stupid, silly girl who gives him grief and disobeys when she ought to heed.

But, tonight…when she walked out of her latest beating, barely able to keep herself from falling into pieces on the floor, it was his sharp glance at her body that kept her together. It was only the smallest shred of a glance, and yet he had eyed her up and down as if looking for damage, as if assessing her wounds. Why would he do that, if not out of concern? Out of sick fascination, she retorted inwardly, because he loves bloodshed and suffering and seeing pretty girls cry. 

After all, hadn’t he fairly lunged away from her, leading a breakneck pace through the palace with which she could barely keep up? She quickly became breathless from the effort, her knees still weak from the position she had been held in for hours, and her feet felt numb. She watched his solid back move expertly through the empty hallways, never once looking back at her. 

But—when the flame singed the tips of her loose braid, and he fairly fell upon her—that was something strange indeed. The look upon his face. The tightly controlled terror buried there as he sought to see if she was wounded by the fire. 

No doubt just a shadow leftover from his trauma as a child, she told herself. He couldn’t help himself from being afeared of fire, it had naught to do with her. 

But the way he looked at her, the way he grasped her arms and gazed fiercely down upon her, that felt like something to do with her indeed. Whether he intended it or not, to be so grasped by him had the oddest impact on her indeed. She found herself offering soothing words to him, wanting to ease that almost childlike terror in his eyes—but ah, there she stumbled, for he saw right through her and snapped back in rage. Of course a knight doesn’t want to be made to feel like a little boy being soothed by his mother.

But did his mother soothe him, Sansa wondered. A silly thought indeed, but one that vibrated inside of her nonetheless. It was hard to imagine anyone ever being gentle or tender with the Hound, hard to imagine a mother sitting by his bedside and comforting him as Mother did whenever Bran or Rickon had a nightmare. No, she doubted the Hound ever had soft touches or nurturing, how could he in a home where his own brother reigned with such monstrosity? 

This saddened her more than reason ought to dictate. He was a killer. A vicious, evil man who deserved no sympathy or concern from her, either now in the present or then in his childhood. Lots of little boys suffer. Look at Bran, she thought. He lost his legs—here she felt the tears coming again, and roughly shoved them away—but he would never, never end up a monster like the Hound. 

Still, if he was a monster, he was a monster who showed her mercy on occasion, and that was more than the other members of Kingsguard ever did. And it was not just she. He defended Ser Loras from the brutality of his brother. And he was gentle with animals. She had seen him at the stables on several occasions, brushing his vicious black mare’s mane and murmuring to him affectionately. And he never kicked or cursed at the stray dogs who ran around King’s Landing, not the way Ser Meryn did. Once she even saw him pet a horrific-looking cur with one eye, a beastly thing that looked like it was halfway dead. But the Hound didn’t seem to mind. But what were scars to a man like him? 

Here, she frowned, a flush forming on her cheeks as she remembered the look on his face when he saw her own scars. For a battle-hardened knight, she would not have expected such a look of horror and disgust at such a small thing. Her scars surely weren't that bad compared to what he had seen in his many battles and tourneys and fights. Bloodshed was a daily occurrence for a man like him. So why did he look like at her with that pained expression as if he was angered beyond measure at the sight of them?

She rolled over on her stomach and let out a small sigh. It was past midnight and she was still wide awake, still thinking of the Hound. Tomorrow she would ask the maester for something to help her sleep. But, for now, all she could do was lay awake and wait for the dawn.  



	3. hellebore

She wasn’t embroidering, he noticed. And this was odd. 

It was mid-afternoon and Cersei was taking her daily sabbatical around the gardens. The Hound followed silently behind her, eyes squinting against the bright sun, and then he saw her…Sansa, red hair alight in the rays, her head bowed over an empty lap. Gathered around her under the piazza sat a group of ladies enjoying tea and doing needlework together. This was their daily practice, her daily practice, which in truth was the only reason he noted what any lady at court did with their days. 

But what of it, he snapped inwardly, his hangover-headache tightening behind his eyes. So what if he noticed a pretty little blue-eyed lass basking in the sunshine? He was a dog, but he wasn’t blind. In the entire Royal Garden, she was the only creature, the only flower worth looking that he could see, so he cast his miserable eyes to her whenever he could surreptitiously do so while attending the Queen as she took the air. And if he found himself purposely seeking out the duty of accompanying Cersei on these walks, instead of sleeping off his latest drinking session or spooling for blood on the training grounds, well who was any the wiser? No one wanted to accompany the petulant bitch anywhere, including Sandor, but since it gave him the daily opportunity to stare furtively across the garden at the little bird, he’d take the otherwise unpleasant task on any day. 

Yet on today’s walk, he was surprised to find Lady Sansa’s lap to be empty. Normally, she was always deeply occupied with some piece of intricate needlework, her fine, small fingers moving nimbly as she ignored the court gossip and worked passionately at her task. She would often bite her lower lip in concentration, her whole face utterly unguarded and vulnerable as her fingers played across the cloth as if they were dancing. 

It was this Sandor longed to see more than anything on these walks, that one simple moment when he could look across the piazza and see Lady Sansa so sweetly, utterly swept up in her work, without a hint of that guarded, false expression she always wore at court. Yes, and that lip-biting, that look of impassioned concentration as she ran her little white teeth along that plump lower lip, her firm, soft cleavage pooling forward ever so slightly as she leaned forward over her work,…yes, that was the blessed, holy moment that Sandor waited all day for. 

But today, he was naught to have it. And this made his headache only triple in its intensity. He felt robbed.

Lady Sansa sat utterly idle, no sign of her embroidery bag nearby. Instead, she stared emptily out into the garden, and even from this distance, he could see her eyes looked shadowed, as though she hadn’t slept well. 

This fact made his own selfish feelings of disappointment become crowded out by a horrifying feeling…of concern? After what happened last night with the candle he would have hoped to be over this disgustingly debasing habit of feeling tender towards the damn little bird. Didn’t he just have a curvy blonde whore sucking his cock while he cussed heatedly under his breath, inwardly swearing he would never bother to spend another moment worrying after the Stark bitch? Scars or no, Sandor was a member of the Kingsguard, and any number of low-class women would satisfy him, and all of his devious desires, provided he gave them a bit of coin. So why in seven hells was he bothering to spend one cursed moment worrying after some uppity high-born cunt? 

And yet…the feelings remained. He seethed at this, and felt his irritation only triple as Cersei turned and began walking towards the group of women. As the Queen approached, they all rose and curtsied, and Sandor took the brief moment in which Lady Sansa bent her head to give her an appraising glance. His desire was stilled as he noted that she was holding her right arm a bit stiffly against herself–like a bird tucking in a wounded wing. He was so engrossed in his appraisal that he didn’t realize she had risen, and was watching him, eyes nervously flicking back and forth as she looked up at him, then to Cersei. 

“Fine weather, your grace,” twittered a tall dark-haired noblewoman beside Sansa. 

Cersei barely cast a glance to the lady. Neither did Sandor. He was struggling to keep his gaze fixed downward, but finding it impossible, he chose to merely glower at Sansa rather than shift his gaze away like some nancy in shortpants. 

“And how are you enjoying the afternoon, Lady Sansa?” asked the Queen, in a chilly, even voice. 

“It’s…fine…weather, your grace,” said Sansa, echoing the words just spoken by the woman beside her, each word struggling out as though her mind was a million miles away. Her cheeks immediately flushed as she realized her mistake, and then, her gaze flickered to Sandor, her ice-blue eyes cast up at him with a girlish helplessness that went straight to his cock. So preposterously beseeching, her gaze, as though she were looking to him for help, reassurance, a friendly face…and yet, what could be more absurd than that? And even if she were fool enough to look to him for such comfort, why in seven hells would his body respond to such a feminine ploy? He steeled his gaze back at her, hoping his dark eyes were as cruel and vicious as they ought to be. 

Instantly, she looked back to Cersei, clouding over as her usual reserved manner overtook her. 

“I mean, to say, we are enjoying your beautiful gardens immensely, your grace. Indeed, Lady Esther was just noting your hellebore bushes and—

“Leave us,” Cersei directed to the women cluttered around Lady Sansa, interrupting her prattle about the flowers. 

Again, Sansa’s eyes flitted almost reflexively to Sandor as the ladies curtsied and scuttled away, leaving the three of them standing alone in the afternoon sun. He let out a huff of air as he again felt that strange clenching in his gut. Gods be good, he missed the days when she was scared to look upon his scarred visage.

If Cersei noted the strange new habit of the little bird staring at him, she didn’t remark upon it. 

Instead, she said, “And why are you not doing your needlework, dear girl?” 

Sansa flushed. “Today, I am…tired,” she offered weakly. 

Sandor couldn’t help but frown slightly, betraying his usual stoic presence beside the Queen’s side. The little bird was a terrible liar, and this was clearly a lie…she may be weary, but that never stopped her from her work before. What could the girl be playing at?

“You must continue keeping your talents sharp, child. You do make such beautiful little things,” said the Queen, yet her tone was far from complimentary. 

“I—” 

The Queen gave a small, wicked smirk. “Your mother would hate to see you sitting idle, child. Shall I have the Dog fetch your supplies from your room?” 

The girl’s eyes flashed, but instead of glancing up at the Hound, instead of glancing up at him the one time it would have made sense for her to actually look upon his ruined face, she instead looked at that ground. And, as she did so, she seemed to curl in on herself slightly, her small hand wrapping around her right arm as she held it gingerly beside her.

Suddenly, Sandor understood. Ser Meryn. The beating last night…the little bird wasn’t too tired, she was fucking injured. He ground his teeth and found himself struggling to remain motionless, fighting an insane urge to take a step closer to the injured girl.

“Well?” the Queen demanded, again. 

“No, please, your grace…there is no need. I am not able to sew today,” said Sansa quietly, finally looking up from the ground and meeting the Queen’s gaze.

“Oh, heavens,” murmured Cersei in faux confusion, as if she had not been witness to her son’s cruelty as he ripped and pulled Sansa apart like she was a doll in his jaws. “Why ever not?” 

Cersei was enjoying her little game very much, Sandor realized, and though this didn’t shock him, it did feel him with a surprising amount of violent rage for her. This moment was the best of her day. This moment of looking upon little Sansa and knowing her unable to enjoy the one small thing that gave her a shred of joy in this cursed place. 

“I am afraid…my arm…I…hurt it somehow,” Sansa finished lamely.

She wanted to look at Sandor again, he could feel it. She was fighting the urge, her blue eyes half-casting towards him and then back to the Queen. He felt suddenly hollow and queasy which he could easily blame on his hangover…and yet…he knew the emptiness came from the little bird’s unwillingness to glance towards him for help again.

Good, he thought cruelly. Good. He had nothing to offer her, no help or comfort or pretty words. 

“Do you need a maester, child?” asked the Queen, casually, as if the girl had simply told her she had a headache. 

Yes, you stupid bitch, thought Sandor, but Sansa merely murmured, “No, no, thank you, your Grace. It’s just a sprain, I think. I’ll be right as rain shortly. You’re too kind.” 

Sandor resisted the urge to snort out loud at that. 

The Queen tipped her head to the side as she looked at Sansa appraisingly. 

“Good,” she said, in a soft, lilting voice. “I would hate to think of any harm befalling you, precious girl. Go on, join the others. And I do hope you can return to your pretty little work tomorrow.”

Sansa curtsied and turned gratefully to join the group. 

Cersei stood there a moment, watching as she walked away. Then, wordlessly, she turned to walk back towards the north gate. 

The Hound followed, in body only. His mind stayed where they had stood, in the palace gardens, looking upon the hurt little bird, for the rest of the day. Even as he drank his weight in sour wine and smashed a cunt’s head against the cobblestone floor of the tavern, he found himself still recalling each detail as he fought a helpless urge to pluck his own stupid thoughts from his brain. 

She was hurt. And she had looked to him. Hadn’t she? For help? For what? Such a thing was incomprehensible. No woman had ever looked to the Hound for such things. Let alone a delicate, innocent thing with eyes like stars. He never expected such a thing to be possible. Never wanted such a thing to be possible. Did he? But so what if he did, he reasoned. She was desirable and luscious in every way a woman should be, and he was far from the only man who ogled her at court each day.

And yet, as he thrashed uncomfortably in his bed that night, he thought not only of her small, sweet tits or her silken hair or her warm strawberry scent, but also of her needlework untouched in her room. Somehow, this thought sunk deep into him, took root in something soft and living inside of Sandor that he thought long dead and cold. The girl had a gift, something that brought her joy, and the fact that this was taken from her today made him have feelings he didn’t know were still possible for him. Feelings of empathy and tenderness and a heart-huge desire to make things right, to make things pretty for her once again.

But what does an ugly dog know about such things, he cursed, laughing aloud at himself. Damned drunk cunt. Too much wine. Too much time at court and not enough time on the battle ground. That’s all it was. That’s all it was.

Right? And he fell asleep before he could disagree with himself.


	4. sorry

Sansa stared mutely at her visage in the looking-glass as her handmaid braided her hair into a complicated Southron updo. She was wearing a form-fitting new gown, pale gray with mauve trimmings, made of fine silken velvet that shimmered seductively around her curves as she walked. It reminded her of snowfall, of the graceful, sudden, silent way the North would suddenly turn white and clean at a moment’s notice. 

“Like a real princess,” complimented the handmaid, gazing upon Sansa’s eyes in the mirror, as if assuming the girl was sizing up her reflection. 

Sansa looked up startled.

“More like a lamb for the slaughter,” she noted dryly in her head, but outwardly she offered only a pleasant, empty, “Thanks.” 

Her small fingers drifted up to the hollow of her throat, where the pendant Joffrey had gifted her fitted like a pearl in a shell. The movement made her elbow sting with pain, and she grimaced slightly, letting her hand fall back to her lap. 

“The king will be proud to have you by his side tonight. They call you the most beautiful woman in the realm,” offered the handmaid genially, encouragingly, as if she supposed Sansa’s silence as a result of her insecurity about her appearance. 

Sansa’s eyebrows shot up. “Not in front of Cersei, I hope,” she said, before thinking, but the handmaid only offered a friendly giggle and a wink. 

Sansa felt her insides warm immediately. How long it had been since she shared in the comfort of conversation, real conversation with a friend. But she knew better than to trust this maid, no matter how kind and simple she seemed. Snakes were everywhere, and she had seen enough heads on spikes to know that no one could ever be trusted in King’s Landing. 

A knock on the door announced the arrival of her escort to dinner. 

“Come, girl,” she heard a familiar voice call out from behind the heavy oak, and her stomach twisted slightly with relief. 

The Hound. She hoped it would be him. When the alternatives were Ser Meryn or one of the other Kingsguard who always pawed at her or abused her, it was easy to understand why the Hound was a comfortable substitute, scarred and vicious though he was. At least he only scowled at her, or swore at her, or snapped at her, but, never, no, never struck her. And just now, with her elbow still feeling like shattered glass inside of her and her sides still sore and bruised from last night’s beating, she did not feel equal to enduring another fearful night on her knees. 

She pushed past the handmaid and opened the door herself, slowly pulling it back and standing before the Hound wordlessly. His mouth parted slightly and she flushed as she felt his eyes heatedly sweep over her figure and then finally, finally, pull away from her body to stare at her face. 

She gave a small, half-smile. 

“I’m ready on time tonight,” she offered, in a lame attempt at friendliness, which was met with a coarse grunt. He continued to stand motionless, as if frozen in place, until she crossed past him over the threshold and began to shut her door.

He pushed her arm away to take the task over himself, but in doing so, his rough paw collided most painfully with her elbow and she visibly winced before righting herself again and forcing a stoic expression back to her face. 

His arm fell to his side with a look of shame (but why would he be ashamed to cause her hurt, she wondered, when that was his royal duty), and then he angrily reached back to shut the door with a loud slam. 

She jumped slightly at the sudden sound, and found that her hand was once again reflexively curled around her throbbing elbow. 

He walked past her without speaking, leading the way to the king’s royal apartments, without casting a glance back to her as usual. She felt herself smart a little at that, and not only because her elbow was throbbing fiercely. He treated her like a pest, when all she ever did was treat him kindly. And this not only embarrassed her, and irritated her, but she was starting to find that…it hurt her pride. Surely he could at least treat her with some degree of the deference due her sex. 

“A knight should apologize to a lady when he harms her,” she found herself saying in a sudden uppity tone. 

He stopped. She felt her blood run a little cold. You fool, she told herself. Why are you teasing a rabid dog? 

Without turning back to her, he asked, “Should I have Ser Meryn apologize for wounding you, little bird?”

“N—n—” she struggled to speak, but he cut her off. 

“Should I have the King apologize for ordering a wee thing to be beaten till she can barely stand?”

She found her mouth dropping open. His words were taunting, but his tone was almost tender in its ferocity, with a tone that seemed to travel to her most intimate, feminine core. 

“No? Then what shall I apologize for?” 

She found herself trembling, and then suddenly, he turned. 

With one quick step he was hovering over her, blocking out the lantern light on the wall beside them, close enough that she could see his dark lashes fanning out over his steel-gray eyes. 

He smelled of wood-smoke and horse and iron, and she felt herself going liquid under his gaze. 

“You’re shaking, girl,” he murmured. “Do I scare you so?”

Her brows knitted together slightly. After a beat, she shook her head slightly. What is wrong with me? She wondered helplessly, but she felt transfixed by his massive, wild presence, as though she were standing before a beast in the woods, yet somehow instead of being afraid, she felt…desirous. 

Something in her eyes shifted, and she gazed up at him obediently. 

A look of confusion, then rage clouded his face. 

“No? You stupid little bird.” 

She winced slightly at that, but then froze, as his two heavy large hands fell not ungently upon her shoulders.

“Not afraid of the dog anymore, is that it? Mayhaps...mayhaps you think you can get the dog to bring you a rat or two, is that it?" 

"N--no, no," she uttered, words pouring out of her as her hands came up to press against his broad armored chest, as if to create some space between them, though she was helpless to move him even a inch. 

"You think you can get me to do your bidding, eh? Win me over with your pretty eyes and your pretty—” Here, his gaze fell down her body and he licked his lower lip with a broad stroke of his tongue. 

She gasped a little as his hands tightened around her. 

“Well, you picked the wrong dog," he sneered. 

“I had no such intention, ser, I, I swear it, I only…” Her mind swam and she thought of her Septa and her father and his guards. The Hound would see her beheaded for a traitor the same as them, accuse her of trying to bewitch him in exchange for her freedom, even though she was doing no such thing. 

Desperately, weakly she pleaded, “I am…I just…I hurt today, I am in pain, I am not thinking clearly.” 

A muscle in his jaw jumped over and over, as he held his gaze upon her, his hands still imprisoning her shoulders. He didn’t speak. Tears came to her eyes and she had the sudden, childish urge to wet herself out of fear.

A strange, indiscernible expression moved across his face. 

“You stupid little bird,” he repeated again, but this time there was no venom in the words, but almost…sorrow. 

Her lower lip pouted out, and she let tears fall as her head bent forward slightly. 

With a ragged sigh, he released her, turning to continue walking towards Joffrey’s rooms. 

As if pulled by an invisible thread, she followed, looking down at the stones as tears made the candlelight dance and blur around her. 

When they were nearly to the king’s door, he spoke once again. His voice was hoarse and low and so deep she could barely hear it. 

“I am sorry I wounded you, little bird,” he cut out in awkward, hesitant words, and then as she glanced up in shock, he flung open the door to Joffrey’s sanctum.


	5. rabid

Sansa was nearly finished with her third glass of wine, aimlessly twirling the ornate stem between her fingers as she sat engrossed in conversation with Lord Petyr Baelish. 

The Hound never felt more like a hound that he did at that moment. The scene before him made him want to howl, snarl, shake something—someone—between his bloodthirsty jaws until the flesh tore apart under his sharp teeth. 

It had been a miserable evening. First, fetching Lady Sansa from her chambers for dinner, an errand he cherished above all others, but one he was so rarely was asked to do. No doubt the King felt it unseemly for his betrothed to be paraded through the palace by a scarred, ferocious dog, not when courtiers and nobles were around to take notice. No, the Hound was only asked to take the girl back to her rooms when it was long past midnight and none would see the beaten girl being ferried home by a worthless dog.

But, tonight, Joffrey was engrossed by the ever-encroaching threat of Stannis, and he spent most of the evening shut up with the small council, in heated discussion with his mother and Tywin Lannister about how to respond to the latest raven from the North. When the bell rang for dinner, Joffrey distractedly told Sandor to go fetch Sansa for the evening meal and festivities. For it was Friday, and that would mean an elaborate seven-course meal and music and many more guests than usual at the King’s table. 

The Hound kept his face impassive, but as he walked up the stairs to Sansa’s apartments, his heart thumped harder than it ought to have. 

And, then, when she pulled open the door, and stood there—he went as still as a hare in the thicket. He could only stare at her, holding his breath, not daring to move an inch in case he revealed how deeply bewitched and helpless he was at the sight of her. She was wearing a new dress, made of lush fabric that clung to her curves like a lover. Her hair was swept upwards, leaving her neck and shoulders bare and shimmering like snow in the candlelight. 

When he finally met her eyes, he found them bright and ice-clear, staring up at him with something akin to kindness. That moved him more than anything, how she was starting to look at him now, how she did so without fear or disgust in her eyes, but only gentle girlishness. Merely a remnant of the fine manners taught to her by her septa, he scoffed inwardly, but his hateful thoughts didn’t impede the blood rushing to his head…or anywhere else for that matter. 

And then, he had harmed her, swiping at her glass-delicate arm like a lumbering beast, and the shame of it almost paralyzed him as he looked down at her pained face. She had recovered herself immediately, reclaiming that passive expression she always wore at court, and it was this, along with his self-hatred at accidentally harming her, that propelled him past her without a second glance.

But then, his little bird proved she could offer more than meaningless little songs. In the first sign of anger she ever showed towards him, she slyly shamed him for not apologizing to her. Her words cut to his heart, because though he was no knight, he did desperately wish to be another man – a man without scars, without a cursed past, a man who would have gently held her aching elbow in his hands and asked for her forgiveness while he kissed the pain away. 

He was not that man. He would never be that man. He was done wishing for things that were never to be. He had been done for decades. And now this redheaded witch with jewel-bright eyes was trying to make him forget that. 

So he did what he always did. Growled and cursed and tried to frighten her…only as he encircled her snow-white shoulders with his coarse, scarred hands, she didn’t flinch. She didn’t grimace or look up at his terrifying face with disgust. In fact…and this had to be the remnants of his head getting hit too many times while training this afternoon…but it almost seemed as though her face held a hint of longing. Of desire. Lust. 

The idea was preposterous. And then, of course, he understood. She was trying to beguile him. Trying to trick a downtrodden beast into doing her bidding and helping to spirit her away from her prison. 

And yet, when he pressed these charges against her, accusing her of using her feminine wiles to gain her freedom, she had seemed truly shocked, bewildered, nay, even terrified. In that moment it struck him how truly traumatized the little bird really was. She wore it well, hid it well, even if the shadows under her eyes and the scars under her dress spoke of the true turmoil buried within. 

So until that very moment, looking down at her fear-blown eyes and feeling her quivering, panicked frame under his large hands, he had not realized how tormented with horror she must be at all times. And of course, why wouldn’t she be, seeing her father’s head roll off his neck without a word of warning and knowing a similar fate awaited the rest of her family as well. For the Hound, who made friends with horror, lied with horror, and even courted horror, this was a surprising realization--her constant fear was not a thought that had ever occurred to him: He only thought of her bruises, and her suffering, and her loneliness, but not of the fact that she must be frightened and wire-taut with anxiety nearly every moment of the day and night. 

He realized then that even if the door to her cage was left wide-open, she would never walk out of it. She would never feel safe enough to do so, never have trust enough to do so. The risk was too great for her. 

She’s broken, the Hound thought. She may be a little bird, but she doesn’t have any wings. The realization nearly knocked the wind out of him. Perhaps it reminded him too much of himself, of the scarred little boy who would never know peace again. 

And so then he turned and walked to Joffrey’s chambers, turning her pain and fear over in his mind helplessly. In a last bid to offer her something, anything, akin to comfort, he had apologized then, but the words were stilting, ungracious…he had never made an apology before, and he had no gift for it. 

But she made no complaint, only walked into the hall behind him, and curtsied to the King. Joffrey paid no mind to her this evening, and the Hound was silently grateful for Stannis and his armies, as they would cause Sansa to have a peaceful evening with her tormentor too distracted to pay her any mind. 

But his gratitude soon evaporated as the hall filled with Joffrey’s guests, and he noted how many men gazed longingly at Sansa, some not even bothering to hide their lustful gaze at her tits. She seemed oblivious to their attention, and instead, sat quietly in a corner, sipping wine and making polite conversation with Maester Pyclelle.

But to the Hound’s surprise, her sipping quickly turned to drinking, real drinking, which was very unusual. She rarely took more than a cup of wine, and even that one cup would often cause her eyes to sparkle and her cheeks to flush, making her a pretty sight indeed but revealing how truly inexperienced she was at holding her wine. So as the cupbearer continued to refill her glass, Sandor found himself grinding his back teeth in frustration. 

He longed to knock the glass out of her hand, to warn her she was playing a dangerous game, because if she thought being passive and unoffensive at court when sober was difficult, doing so when she was well in her cups would prove to be a losing game. No matter what manners her Septa learned her, the little bird’s thin veneer of self-protection would falter with too much wine and Joffrey would instantly smell her vulnerability.

And someone smelled it indeed, but it wasn’t Joffrey, but a threat which was perhaps even worse. The damned prissy cunt Lord Baelish. As the crowd moved to dinner, the Hound noted how the nobleman easily encircled Sansa’s small waist with his arm, gently guiding her to a seat next to him. Even from where he stood behind Joffrey’s chair, Sandor could note a small expression of irritation on Sansa’s face, and while that gave his brutal envy some form of relief, it was only further proof of how the wine was going to her head and making her lose her mask.

Yet as the night wore on, and the little bird kept drinking, the Hound was made a fool of once more. For she didn’t become irritable or peevish with Lord Baelish’s attentions, but she almost seemed to enjoy them, giggling at his jokes and letting him pet her without pulling away. 

Inside, the Hound howled. But even amidst his misery, he found himself treading and retreading the events prior to dinner, when he walked Sansa to the festivities. Because after he had wrongly accused her of trying to woo him for her own gain, and he was heart-struck by the evident terror and hopelessness on her face, he realized that she had no such plan at all. That she would never take any such risk, never do anything to defy Joffrey or the Queen. 

That was plainly so. And yet…if that was true, then…why had she looked up at him with that expression—that expression which was so akin to desire? His heart clenched and twisted inside of him. She was mad. That was the only explanation. She was confused and broken and terrified. That was all. And now, seeing her here, drinking with abandon when she normally refused wine refills, only proved it.

She was mad, he told himself. Traumatized by having her father’s head roll at her feet. By being beaten and degraded and threatened for months on end. For living without family or friends or sweetness, when she had lived her whole life in comfort and love. No wonder she was breaking apart at the seams. She didn’t desire him, not really. No woman ever would. Let alone a starry-eyed innocent thing like her. 

Well, let her be mad then. If it meant she looked at him like that, he would take it. But not if it meant seeing her own head roll, which it surely would if she kept drinking and behaving without caution in front of the King and his mother. Even from his spot behind the King, the Hound could feel Cersei’s eyes watching Sansa, narrowing in on the little redhead as she laughed easily at a joke from the imp. 

Yes, she was mad. And she was playing a dangerous game. But the Hound was more dangerous than any of them, than anything on this side of the seven hells. In that moment, the Hound made a promise to himself. He would be the rabid dog that saw broken Sansa Stark through this war. He would be the darkness that would lead her to the light. 

But for now, for tonight, he just had to get her to stop drinking.


	6. chaos is a bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ** just a small note, if i am not replying to comments & feedback, it's that once i get really into a story, i find reading the comments can throw me off my game. as i am a sensitive ass bitch. and sometimes people will complain if a slow burn is TOO slow or whatever else. but i will go back and read comments when i finish the story, and i do appreciate the love and kudos so much! its just that if i get too much negative feedback, my muse will go pout and i might not be able to find her again. **

It felt good not to feel. To be numb. Unafraid. She was here, in King’s Landing, but the wine was taking her somewhere far away. Somewhere good. Somewhere safe. Now she knew why Cersei loved her drink. 

She took another sip from her glass. The lamb on her plate sat untouched, but she lifted a heavy hand to push it around with her fork and make it look as if it had been enjoyed. Just as she and Arya used to do at Winterfell whenever the cook made mutton, she thought, and a smile almost made it to her face before dying away. She would likely never see either again, Arya or Winterfell. No matter. No sense in crying. No sense in feeling. No sense. No sense. That’s what she wanted. No senses. No more ability to feel pain or grief or terror at what was coming next. 

She took another sip. Somewhere beyond her, Tyrion made another joke, and she only vaguely understood its punch line, but she laughed along with the others easily. It was easier to fake laugh when she was drunk she realized. Easier to fake almost everything.

Sure, the room was spinning and she felt vaguely unmoored, as if she was on a ship being battered by waves, but that was the point of drinking, right? And what did it matter if her father would have scolded her for taking a fourth or a fifth glass? He was gone now, and she was alone. Always alone. 

She would have sunk into a heap of self-pitying sobs if not for the fact that she felt the Hound’s eyes on her at all times. From the time they walked into the room together, after he had shocked her with his sweetly well-intentioned apology (for when was the Hound EVER sweet, and who knew it would feel so…intimate and arousing to be the recipient of his gentleness?), he had never stopped staring at her. 

As he stood guard behind his master, he watched her with dark, unreadable eyes, his gaze following her from sip to sip as though he was tracking an animal in the woods, studying her behavior and seeking some hidden key to her inner workings. It was unnerving and yet utterly compelling, and she found she loved this, this feeling of his eyes on her. And there so few things left to love in this world. 

But soon even the Hound’s presence was blotted out by the wine and the nonstop prattling of Lord Baelish, whose company she normally enjoyed but was finding more intolerable as her days in King’s Landing wore on. She tried to heed what he was saying, but it was difficult to keep the names of the noblemen and women in his court gossip straight, and she finally gave up and only nodded and smiled, thanking the gods that she was well-versed in feigning attention to boring dinner prattle.

Finally, he excused himself to speak with a visiting dignitary from Dorne, and Sansa gladly found herself with no one but Tyrion as a table-mate, who was a Lannister but at least a witty and harmless one, as far as she could tell. So he told her jokes, and she laughed happily, and the wine flowed, and she consciously kept reminding herself to stop looking over at the Hound, and yet, it happened again, and again, and again…and each time she glanced at him, his face seemed darker and more distant, and suddenly her gaiety began to evaporate. 

And, then, Jamie Lannister sat beside her. This was a surprise, as he usually just ignored her, but he was in high spirits this evening as well it seems, clearly drunk and not bothering to hide it, despite Cersei’s stern glances down the table. 

“You’re in trouble,” said Tyrion lowly, to which Jamie just shrugged. 

“When am I not,” he said flatly, and the brothers shared a look. 

Jamie and Cersei were fighting, Sansa realized with a slight start. The only times Cersei was ever in a good mood was when Jamie was nearby and coddling her, but if they were not on good terms…she bit her lower lip a little as her thoughts became troubled. 

“It’s so charming when you do that,” said Jamie, and Sansa looked up in confusion. “Bite your lip like that. It’s bewitching. Isn’t it, Tyrion?”

Sansa felt her cheeks flush. She had an irrational urge to look to the Hound, as if he could save her from whatever was unfolding here, but she only trembled slightly and took another drink. 

Tyrion shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “She’s a rare beauty,” he said stiffly, and in his eyes, Sansa could see worry beginning to surface. She grasped the edge of the table with her hands to try to regain some balance. Though she kept her gaze locked on Tyrion, she felt the queen’s fierce stare upon her all the same, and she cursed herself inwardly for drinking so much. The night was getting out of her control, like she was being swept up in some huge black wave that would eat her up like she was nothing at all.

“Don’t look so frightened, sweet girl,” said Jamie, and his voice was as smooth as velvet. 

“Then stop frightening her, brother,” said Tyrion slowly, taking a huge gulp from his wine glass and giving Sansa an encouraging nod. 

“I’m only giving the girl a compliment, for goodness sake,” said Jamie, and his eyes sparkled at Sansa as he leaned conspiratorially into her, his lips practically brushing the inner shell of her ear as he whispered. “I’m practically your uncle, sweetling. It’s perfectly alright.”

At this moment, Sansa could no longer stop herself from glancing down the end of the table. Cersei held her gaze for a moment, and then with a slight tilt of her head, she gave the girl a cat-like grin. 

Sansa suddenly felt ice-cold, and quickly pulled her eyes back to Jamie, and in that moment, she was no longer able to hide behind a façade of charm or the protection of wine. Anxiety radiated out of her. But unlike Joffrey or Cersei, who relished her terror, the sight of her so helplessly distressed seemed to have a shaming effect on him. 

“Forgive me, my lady,” he said, pulling away from her and giving an embarrassed look down to his hands. “I’ve been a cad. Too much wine, I’m afraid.”

Tyrion snorted. “I’ve had twice the amount as you, and I’ve been nothing but a charming nobleman. Isn’t that so, Lady Sansa?” 

She let out a small grateful giggle, eager to make the awkwardness of the situation go away, but when she looked back to Jamie, he was only looking at her with studied intention, as if he was seeing behind her façade, beyond her clothing even, seeing her bare and vulnerable and utterly exposed. 

“Do stop staring you bloody idiot,” snapped Tyrion. “You’re going to make the girl faint.” 

He gave Tyrion a sharp look, but with a quick bow of the head, he rose then, only casting a small backwards glance at Sansa as he moved to his spot beside Cersei at the head of the table. 

She shivered, despite being overwarm from the wine and the closeness of the fire. 

“Are you feeling ill, Sansa, dear?” asked Tyrion, and his tone held meaning that her drunken mind struggled to grasp onto at first. But then, she clearly saw the lifeline and grabbed onto it with both hands.

“Yes, yes,” she nearly gasped. “I think I ought to go back to my rooms. If only I could be excused.”

“Certainly, you shall be,” said Tyrion, and he gestured for her to stand as he walked around the other side of the table to join her. 

“Lady Sansa is feeling a bit ill,” said Tyrion loudly then, directing his voice to Cersei and Joffrey. “I am afraid the lamb didn’t agree with her.”

“More like the wine,” sneered Joffrey, who directed his attention to her for the first time that evening. “I noted how much you imbibed tonight, my dear bride. Do make sure you show more modesty in the future. This isn’t the North, you know, we do things differently here.” 

Cersei gave an icy nod of agreement. 

“It’s not becoming for a lady,” she said, and the hypocrisy of that charge made Sansa want to howl, but then she ordered, “Dog, take her back to her room.”

The Hound was moving towards her even as Tyrion protested, saying “I can do—”

Cersei interrupted him. “No, we need to speak privately about family matters,” and here she gave Sansa a pointed look. 

Sansa gave a deep curtsey. “Thank you, your grace.” 

And she was about to say more, but suddenly she felt a large hand pulling her by the armpit, and heard the Hound bitterly say, “Come, do as your bid, child.” 

She rose on quaking feet and obeyed, finding it harder than she expected to walk in a straight line as she tried not to stumble out the door. 

“Just one foot after the other,” said the gruff voice beside her, so low she could barely hear, as he placed a hand on her lower back and steered her forward. 

One foot after the other. One foot after the other. 

Her eyes focused and she let him lead her without resistance. She found herself leaning into him unintentionally (or rather intentionally but who could prove it so?), so close she could rest her cheek on his large armored bicep if she so chose. Gods, but that idea sparked something warm and liquid inside of her, the idea of laying against him, of burrowing into his big, warm chest, exploring his scarred, battleworn body with her small hands. Heavens, she must be well and truly drunk to be thinking such things, about the Hound no less...and yet, she couldn't think of a single man who she would rather think of in such a manner. She had the mad urge to pretend to faint so that he would be forced to carry her to her rooms, but no sooner had they exited the hall and entered the narrow passageway to the left tower, when he relinquished his calming demeanor, and instead spun her to face him, hissing, “You stupid little bird!”

Her mouth fell open.


	7. loosen up my buttons

She stumbled slightly, her fingers reaching back to brush against the stone wall behind her. 

“What—wh—”

“Are you trying to get yourself killed, girl?” the Hound growled, stepping towards her so that her back was flush against the wall. The narrow hallway suddenly seemed even narrower, and she took in a gulp of air. 

She frowned, then let out a very unladylike hiccup. “What do you mean?”

He gave her a look of disbelief that was almost comical. She had never seen him be so expressive, and it was a welcome and novel experience to see the Hound drop his stoic exterior, even if he seemed greatly enraged with her. 

“What do I mean! What do I mean? Seven hells!” he sighed in exasperation, taking his hands and pulling her towards his body by her biceps. She lingered there, just inches from him, so close she could see the intricate, warped details of his burns, but also his glowing, dark gray eyes as they fastened on her passionately. She felt herself stop breathing. Kiss me, she thought. Kiss me. She had no idea where the thought came from, but as soon as thought it, she realized she had been thinking it for a while--that this dark fantasy of the Hound embracing her, kissing her, defiling her, deflowering her had always been there just under the surface. Yes, kiss me, she thought. 

He stared down at her in shock for a moment, and briefly, wildly, she wondered if she had said those words out loud.

But then he only shook his head as if trying to rid himself of the annoying buzzing of a fly, yet blessedly kept his hands still firmly wrapped around her arms. Looking at the floor, he seemed uncertain, confused, but then he seemed to recall his purpose, and tightened his grasp, biting out: 

“What do I mean? What do I MEAN? I MEAN, I mean that you were a damned fool to drink your weight in wine like that! The fuck were you thinking, girl?”

This intense outpouring surprised her, but she kept her face composed, trying to appear sober as she replied, “I hardly drank my weight in wine, what a preposterous—”

“Are you trying to get yourself killed, is that it? You want to see your blood spilled, your life end before you’re barely a woman?” 

Here, her composure failed her and she felt a lump rising in her throat. “I didn’t do anything wrong, ser—” 

“Stop bloody calling me ser! I’m not a damned ser and you know it!” 

He was practically yelling now. She felt her vision begin to blur with tears and drunkenness and exhaustion. 

“I’m sorry, se—I’m sorry—I—” 

She hiccupped again. 

“What in seven hells were you thinking?” he snapped in irritation, and at this, she did feel a warm tear roll down her cheek, for in truth she had no idea what she had been thinking, and now she had only further incensed the queen and piled more pain at her own feet. With an unhappy sigh, she closed her eyes. 

She waited for him to keep yelling, but he made only a low moan and then a stillness fell over him. He dropped his hands from her arms and she felt cold, hatefully cold, but before she could open her eyes, she felt his large, coarse paw swipe against her cheek, inexpertly wiping her tear away.

She jumped at the unexpected touch, and instantly his hand fell away. Her eyes flew open. He was looking down at the floor guiltily, but in one swift moment, she gathered his hand in both of hers and clutched it to her face. His fingers spread wide against her soft cheek, and when she brought her eyes back to his, he was staring down at her in frozen disbelief. 

She smiled gently, nuzzling into his warm hand for a moment, locking him in place with her own two hands wrapped around his giant wrist. He let her do so, but she could feel the strength there, the tension in him as he watched her in bewilderment, and she knew she was only holding his hand there because he was letting her. 

“You’re drunk,” he breathed then, and she gave a small disinterested shrug.

He pulled his hand away, then, but she tried to resist the movement, only earning herself a gentle shake, as he freed himself with complete ease. 

“I need to take you back to your rooms,” he said, “Before anyone sees the state of you.” 

She gave him a little pout. “Back to my cage, you mean.” 

He gazed down at her and swiped his tongue along his lower lip. “Aye, your cage,” he said, and his voice seemed to have dropped several octaves. “Where you’re safe…from drink, from Lord Baelish, from Jamie Lannister—”

Here she cringed a little. So he had noticed the behavior of the Queen’s brother. She examined his face for a hint of jealousy or rage, but if she hoped to find some inkling that he felt competitive for her attention, she was disappointed. He looked only…concerned, and that sent a ripple of terror flooding through her, her anxiety only heightened rather than dulled by the drink in her. 

“I’m never going to get out of here alive, am I?” said Sansa desperately. “You know it, don’t you? That’s why you’re looking at me that way, that’s why you’re being kind to me now—” 

She grasped ineffectually at the Hound’s chest, but the armor gave no purchase for her to cling to, and she gave up, merely sinking her warm forehead against the cold metal of his chest and hugging her arms against herself. 

“Oh, gods,” she heard the Hound swear, and for a moment, he made no movement, only letting her cry and hide there in his chest, just as she had longed to. And as scared and heartsick as she was, she was right that there was comfort here, that he smelled like woods and fire and metal and home, and that his hands, when they finally found their place awkwardly on her back, stroking up and down, were unimaginably tender despite their size and their many scars. 

"It's only the wine talking, little bird," he said, and his tone was coarse, uncertain but his words warmed her from the inside-out. "It's only the wine. Too much drink and not enough food in you, and you already so wee to begin with."

For several long minutes, she sobbed against him, and at some point, his hands went from petting her back to clutching her tighter against him, so flush that she could feel his heart beating, feel his chest go up and down with each inhale and exhale. She felt she could cry forever, would cry forever, but eventually, she found herself tiring, and her sobs slowly began to sputter to a stop. 

“Aye, good girl,” she heard the Hound say comfortingly, and the words went straight to her core, shocking her with how intensely she felt her desire peak. “That’s a good girl, then. Breathe, breathe. It’s alright, little bird.”

Her head ached fiercely. She pulled herself off his chest and looked up at him, then back down quickly, suddenly very ashamed of herself and how awful she must look.

“I’m sorry I’ve made such a fool of mysel –”

He touched lightly under her chin, forcing her to look up at him with a gentle push of his fingers. 

“The first time I got drunk, I fell of my horse and threw up for 2 days,” he said. “if your first experience with wine only ends in a few pretty tears, well, you’ve naught to apologize for.” 

“But I got your armor all soggy,” she said, and a smile played on his lips as he looked at her and shook his head. 

“C’mon,” he urged her, pulling her by the arm. “You’d best be in bed.” 

She let him direct her up the winding stairs, and she noted how he carefully wrapped his hand higher on her bicep than normal, as if he recalled her hurt elbow and was intentionally trying to be extra-gentle with her. She smiled a little at that. 

They arrived at her door much too soon, and she felt a sudden stark emptiness at the idea of watching him walk away from her. Stay with me, she foolishly wanted to beg, don’t leave me here alone. Not again.

He cocked his head slightly at her, his eyes raking up and her as she leaned against the door unsteadily. 

“I can’t undo my buttons,” she said abruptly. “My elbow, I—”

Here, she swore she saw the Hound blush, a rare thing indeed. “I’ll fetch a handmaid—

“No, no, it’s late—I would not like to wake them,” she said, and his expression was hardened, resolute, so she let herself look a little sorrowful as she added, “They’re so rough with me, when they’re tired.”

He raised his eyebrows. “They’re ‘rough’ with you?” 

“They hate me, you know,” she said plaintively, reaching up to awkwardly tug a hairpin out of her complicated braids. He watched her, confused, transfixed, utterly immobile. 

“They do, I know it. Most of them anyway,” she added guiltily, thinking of the kind handmaid she had earlier in the evening. 

“Child, are you asking me to come into your rooms and help you undress?” 

She pouted outright at that. “If I can’t call you ser, you can’t call me child,” she said. “I’m a woman grown.” 

His expression darkened. “Aye, you’re not a child at all.” 

She blushed as he crowded in closer to her, laying a sudden heavy hand upon her waist.

“But you’re still a little bird,” he said lowly, “Aren’t you?”

His breath was warm on her neck, and as he gripped her tighter, she felt him inhale her, burying his head in her hair as if he was drinking in her scent. 

Her head spun. 

He pulled back slowly, gazing down at her as his hand found her face, his thumb stroking her lower lip while she stood paralyzed with fear or desire or both. 

“I’ll send a maid for the buttons,” he said abruptly, dropping his hand and pulling away.

Before she could utter a complaint, he locked eyes with her, and stroked a loose strand of hair off her face with a charmingly clumsy swipe. 

“Get inside, girl,” he said. “If a handmaid is rough to you, I shudder to think how a hound would feel to you.” 

And then, without a goodbye, he turned sharply and left her there, drunk and aching and vibrating with life and desire. So much for numbing her senses, she thought ruefully. From now on, I’ll stick to lemon cakes, and she slammed her door in a most un-grown up way.


	8. pretty sister

The Hound walked in the rain through the deserted streets of the Keep. Even the pleasure-house lay quiet, only murmured conversation coming through the shuttered windows. He was alone with his thoughts in the dark, as usual, as he preferred, and yet tonight, a restlessness pervaded his soul and urged him to keep walking, keep pacing these familiar streets he knew so well. These streets where he was feared, reviled, and occasionally, respected.

Never once had he walked these streets, in day or night, and been sought out for his company, his conversation, his comfort…and yet, little Sansa Stark had sought all that and more from him tonight. She clung to him faithfully, utterly wholeheartedly, like she trusted him, like she felt safe in his arms, like his body brought her reassurance…even, pleasure? 

This was unbelievable to him. Like the trained soldier he was, he worked and worked it over in his mind, attacking it from every vantage point and looking for weaknesses in its structure. At first, he had assumed she was tricking him for her safety, but then that had proved unlikely, so he began tonight’s theory, which was that someone was using her to trick him. But who, and why? Varys? Trant? Baelish?

And could the little bird possibly be such a good actress? Surely not—she was a frightened, innocent girl with very little knowledge of court life and how to survive in such an environment. She was far from a useful ally or resource. 

Maybe Joffrey was testing him. Or Cersei. But why should they care and what it would gain them? His head? He would give it to them not unwillingly, and be glad to be rid of the offensive appendage. 

No, he wasn’t important enough or wealthy enough to be attacked for anything. Surely he had enemies but common men, men like him, men who he fought and beat in the tavern, not men who would have any dealings with the likes of Lady Sansa Stark. 

No answers came to him as he wound his way around and around the Keep, looking for answers to the mystery that was the little bird. The little bird who was no longer afraid of the dog. 

Mad, then? Not like the downcast souls who lived in the country asylum, that’s for sure. She wasn’t tearing out her hair and seeing spirits. No, she seemed perfectly coherent and charming and all things good and clear…except for one small thing. 

She looked at him like she desired him, in a way no courtesan or whore ever had. Tonight, in a darkened hallway, she cried on his chest like a lover, she took his hand against her cheek and rubbed it against her like she was a nuzzling kitten. She—who had been entertained by the likes of Jamie Lannister and Lord Baelish, who had the eye of every man in court tonight—turned to a burned dog for comfort tonight. 

And , yes, maybe even more than that. Inviting him into her rooms, of all things. The damned little fool, he thought, but not without a masculine swell of pride and desire flooding his cock. As if he would risk her life for such a thing. He would risk his, and gladly. He couldn’t think of a better reason to die, than to be found guilty of making himself at home inside of Sansa’s sweet tight cunt. He would be led to the executioner’s block with a smile on his face, memories of her silken curves and quiet moans carrying him into the next world. 

But not if it would mean her death as well. No, his desire for her did not override his desire to protect her, and this was perhaps the thing that was puzzling the Hound most of all. He always thought whatever soul or goodness he had been born with had been burned out of him when Gregor put him to the fire. Yet – tenderness was taking root in him, no, taking bloom, and he felt as shocked and betrayed as any traveling homeowner who has come home and found his place ransacked. What has happened here? Who has been here? 

Sansa. Little bird. The pretty Stark sister. So soft and small and pliable, as warm as any fire but without the sting of the flames. Yes, she had been here, she was here inside of him. 

Very well then. Every dog needs a master. And she could be his. Yes, he would see her out of King’s Landing alive, but could he do so while controlling his urges and not defiling her? No, he thought, for he was only a man and not a very good one at that. For yet again, when he returned to his bed, (which he had to admit now, he had been avoiding for this very reason), he freed his throbbing cock from his pants and fiercely pleasured himself as he thought of naught but her…and the way she would slip out of that gray dress for him, get down to her smallclothes, and tug him into bed with those lust-blown sparkling eyes…till he would finally undress her fully and lay his mouth on her copper-haired cunt, fingers trailing through her wetness, tasting her secrets, until she was ready for him to fill her entirely. 

He came roughly, messily, with a choking sort of groan. Little Bird. You ought to fly away from me while you still can, he thought, and then fell asleep with his utilitarian simplicity. But when he dreamed, he saw wildfire and dragons and dead things and he heard bells.


	9. CREAM

Sansa laid down on the cool marble, turning over to her side to rest her head on her forearm. Her legs curled underneath her long green voile, and she shut her eyes. It was so lovely to lay here in the sun, to let herself just be a warm, living under thing under its rays, with no thoughts of court or her troubles to bind her. 

She had been reading a book in the gardens but she soon tired of the women chattering and gossiping as they sewed, so she begged off and instead went for a quiet walk in the arboretum. It was deserted, and she found herself relishing the solitude, walking slowly in a deliciously drowsy daze. After a while, she came to a white stone pergola, and it seemed the perfect spot to sit and rest…but then sitting seemed so very silly when she just wanted to…rest her eyes for a moment and before she knew it, she was nearly in dreamland. 

Just as she was about to slip away, she heard the unmistakable fall of a footstep. Her heart clenched, and she sat up with a start. 

“Who’s there?” she asked, but even as the words left her mouth, she had already seen him. The Hound, his tanned skin glowing like burnished bronze in the sunlight, a wry half-smile playing on his lips. She felt her breath quicken. She had almost forgotten how handsome he was, and how large. It had been four days since she had seen him last, as King Joffrey had organized a hunting party in honor of his own name day and the Hound was in his attendance. 

“Has the little bird fallen out of her nest?” he asked teasingly, motioning to her supine position on the ground.

She blushed and was about to quickly stand, but to her shock, he sat down himself, his back against the stone pillar beside her, his legs very nearly within her reach. She noted he had dried blood stains on the sides of his doublet, and she looked up in alarm. 

He saw her glance and said, “Only boar, I’m afraid.” 

“Was it a merry time?” she asked conversationally, trying to keep her voice neutral and completely calm. She had only seen him once since the drunken night she made such a fool of herself, and even then it had been in the company of Tyrion and Cersei so she had been unable to even have a conversation with him. Indeed, though she was sorry to see him leave on the hunting trip, she had been glad of his absence if only it meant he may have some occasion to forget how unladylike she had acted. 

He didn’t answer, but only stared at her thoughtfully, before carefully swiping his tongue along his lower lip.

“No, my lady,” he said evenly. “It was not especially merry.”

“Did you have fine weather—”

“Yes,” he replied flatly again, still keeping his eyes locked on her, causing her to look down at her lap with a pink blush forming on her cheeks. He was clearly resisting her inept attempts at small talk, as though he were waiting for her to speak of the last time they were alone together. She felt hopelessly shy and wished the whole thing could simply be avoided. But her good manners required otherwise.

“Ser, I—” 

Suddenly, she stopped. Her hand flew up to her mouth. Memories flooded back to her. She cut a small glance to the Hound out of the corner of her eyes. 

“Aye,” he said, noting her glance. “I’m not a ser…and you’re not a child.” 

She put her head in her hands. 

“Oh my gods, I can’t imagine what you must of think of me,” she moaned. “I’ve been so ashamed.” 

She felt his body go a little still, even from beneath her covered eyes. He said nothing. 

“I shall never drink wine again, I swear it.” 

He grunted a little laugh at that. “That’s a promise men have made and broken for thousands of years.” 

She dropped her hands dramatically. “No, I mean it! One cup and no more.” 

He bent his right knee into his chest and wrapped his arm around it. 

She waited for him to say something, to offer something in the way of forgiveness or reassurance that her behavior hadn’t offended him or forever tarnished his opinion. But he gave nothing. Instead, his eyes seemed a bit darker, heavier, as though he were watching her from far away. 

“I only meant, the way I acted, I—” she paused. “I am…endeavoring to express—that I am sorry of how—” 

She stopped herself. This was not going well. Her septa never learned how to apologize for being drunken and immoral. 

“Stop torturing yourself, girl,” he said lowly then, eyes pulling away from her and staring off into the distance behind her.

She glanced up at his face then. That old hard hateful expression was back. 

“I’ve offended you,” she said, the words coming unbidden from her lips as she thought them. 

He winced a little at that. She saw the muscle in his left jaw jumping as he continued to stare evenly away from her. 

“I have,” she said, when she realized he was not going to speak. She felt utterly at sea, uncertain of how to proceed and what she had done to make him so displeased with her. Perhaps she had forgotten some portion of the night. She knew that was common with drunkenness. 

“Please forgive me, ser,” she said, forcing herself onward, not caring if he recoiled a bit at the word. She had no other name to call him, except Dog or Hound, and she would not like to call him those things. “I behaved monstrously.” 

He shot her a glance then. “Monstrously?” he demanded. 

She flushed. She wasn’t exactly sure how she had acted in truth. She remembered crying upon him, she remembered the huge, hard warmth of his chest. She remembered his hand in hers, pressing his coarse flesh into the hollow of her cheek. And…this worst of all, asking him to help her with her gown. But as to why any of this would leave him so bitter and distant, she wasn’t sure. 

“I can’t…I can’t…” she bit her lip and flushed then, thanking the gods that her hair was loose so she cover her blushing face as she bent forward.

“You forgot?” he asked, and the hollowness of his tone caused her to look over to him once more. He looked bereft, but then quickly covered his expression with a stoic mask. 

“No, no, I—”

He tilted his chin down at her and tutted away her rebuttal. “It’s fine, girl. There’s naught to remember.”

“I acted shamefully, I—”

He cut her off again, angrily this time. “No, you bloody didn’t, silly bird. You were a bit in your cups, and you cried, aye, but wine does that to a body, and women’s especially.” 

She let his words hang in the air for a moment. He was giving her a way out. Her heart clenched inside of her. She had the wild urge to climb into his lap, to straddle him like a horse as she held his face between her hands until he finally, finally looked at her and released that hateful—no, frightened—expression. That’s what it was. He’s not angry with me, he’s afraid of me, she realized, and somehow that made her want to cry with happiness. 

He took in the joyful expression on her face, and he fairly sneered, moving to stand as he did so. 

“Wait!” she cried out, reaching out and placing one hand on his upper thigh. His eyes darted back to her in disbelief. She felt her breath catch in her throat and she looked down at her hand, as if she too could not believe where she had just laid it. It looked so small and clean next to his blood-stained trousers, and she could feel the muscles in his thigh as hard as the stone beneath her.

Suddenly she was the one who felt frightened. She wanted to remove her hand. She wanted to place it higher, higher near the join of his thigh and his…She gripped her fingers around him tighter for an instant, but then guilty began to move it away. However, he was faster than she—grabbing her around the forearm and fairly pressing her hand into his thigh as he held her in place. 

“I didn’t forget anything, anything,” she said quietly. 

He frowned slightly, his hand loosening on her slightly, but only so he could begin gently caressing up and down her forearm, his scarred, tanned hand disappearing into the loose sleeves of her garment. 

“I only meant to say…I was sorry for…behaving unlike a lady…and immodestly,” she uttered, finally, even as her eyes looked down at her hand gripped around his thigh. 

He grinned a little wickedly at that. 

“Which I suppose I am behaving as such…right now,” she said, a little guiltily, with a surreptitious look around them to make sure they were alone. 

His grip on her tightened again. “You don’t have to do that,” he said, a little angrily. “I wouldn’t have let you touch me if I thought we were not ascertained to be alone.” 

She sighed a little, trying to pull back from him, if only from the stiff awkwardness of the twisted way she was sitting. 

He, however, would not relinquish her.

“You can still forget it,” he told her.

She gave him a questioning look.

“That night. And this,” he added, a bit remorsefully. 

“Heavens, why would I want to,” she breathed. 

He frowned, tilting his head to the side and looking her up and down as if he was trying to figure out a puzzle. 

“Are we…ascertained…to be alone?” she asked meekly. 

His jaw tightened, but he gave a quick nod of assent.

Then, without another word, she crawled over the rest of the way to the Hound on her knees, watching his expression change from shock to full-bodied desire as she shifted her body so that she was flush against him and practically sitting in his lap. 

She placed her free hand on his stomach, and closing her eyes, she leaned him and gave him a kiss. She smiled as she felt a gasp literally leave his mouth as she did so, and she was about to lean in closer, when suddenly, she was in the air and his arms were gripping around her as he yanked her on top of him. 

Now it was her turn to be surprised. Instantly, his hands were in her hair, tugging and twisting the strands as he sought her lips, sucking and nearly biting at her soft flesh as his tongue sought entry to her mouth. She froze a bit, in wonderment and intimidation. She had never been kissed like this before, only ever shared innocent kisses with Theon and other young men at Winterfell balls over the years. But none had never boldly inserted their tongues inside of her mouth or held her body down upon—upon—she felt her eyes open in alarm. That was his cock. Hard and huge and unyielding, pressing up against her bottom through her skirts. She gave a small cry and pressed her arms against his chest. 

He seemed insensible to her apprehension, so she pressed harder and harder against him, roughly twisting and turning upon his lap until he finally released her mouth, pulling back with an angry, hurt growl. But then, seeing her face, he seemed to come back to himself and he let go of his grip on her, releasing his fingers from the back of her head so that they combed through down to her ends of her hair. 

She found herself locked in his gaze, closer to his face than she ever had been before. Then suddenly, in one smooth motion, he removed her from his lap and sat her down on the stones beside him. 

“Did I harm you?” he asked, a little breathlessly, looking down at his hands.

She shook her head. 

He looked up at her then, and then, with a dazed, cautious look on his face, he reached up to touch the ends of her hair. 

“Sweet bird,” he admonished, pulling her hair around his fingers and winding it around them as if he were mesmerized by the strands. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to fly away from dogs like me?” 

She hummed a little, feeling happy goosebumps cover her skin as his light touch against her hair and back awoke every nerve ending inside of her. 

“No?” he asked. 

She smiled a little and shook her head.

“Northern girls aren’t afraid of hounds, ser,” she said, in a flirtatious voice she barely recognized as her own. 

His grip on her hair tightened. She gave him a smile from under her lashes.

“You ought to start calling me Sandor, Little Bird,” he said, and then, abruptly he bent his head forward and pulled her backwards to him, completely burying his head in her hair, smelling her and nuzzling her not unlike Lady used to do. She giggled a little.

He only growled a little in reply. “You smell like strawberries and cream,” he said. 

She grinned, then bit her lip when he added, “I want to eat you up.”


	10. shackled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *back to Hound POV for a bit*

For a moment that felt all too brief, the Hound let himself hide there in the warmth of Sansa’s soft red locks. He only released her when it struck him that he was nuzzling her like a dog would his master and the comparison felt too close to comfort. 

Shrinking slightly back into himself, he dropped his hand, but not before allowing his broad fingers to stroke down her back and around the soft curve of her waist as he reluctantly let go of her. 

He looked down at his scarred hands for a moment, feeling far too much and far too deeply to trust himself to speak aloud. For three nights he had been away from King’s Landing, which was the longest he had ever been away from Lady Sansa since she had the misfortune of being matched with Joffrey. While he was glad to know the little bird was given a respite from King Cunt’s twisted mind, he had found himself in a despairing mood for most of the trip. To be away from her had been an unusual and novel form of torture for him, and now, to return home to such a bewitchingly warm welcome…he did not know to find any footing inside of himself. 

As if mirroring his thoughts, she said casually, happily, “Varys said you would all return today, but I didn't dare to hope too greatly.” He felt a clutching pang in his chest. Who in his life had ever been happy to see the return of his scarred face? 

“Aye,” he said flatly, wishing his tone didn’t have to be so gruff and discourteous, but fearing to allow any emotion to creep into his voice and give his utter vulnerability away. 

“Is…is the King in high spirits?” she asked, and he quickly glanced over at her, easily reading the worry and apprehension in her face. 

“He did not enjoy himself much, no,” said the Hound, hating his honesty yet refusing to shield the lass with pretty lies. She had enough of that court already. Joffrey was in an unusually horrific mood thanks to his inability to make a single kill with his costly new crossbow, and it would do no good to lead the little bird to expect otherwise. 

“Oh,” she said quietly. 

He watched her sitting in the sun for a moment, this pretty, precious thing with big worried blue eyes and trembling hands. She was as perfect a thing as he had ever seen, and simply gazing upon her made him weak with stomach-clenching lust…and something else, something desperately tender that he was afraid to name. He should have been overfilled with pleasure, looking upon her full, pouting lips, and her warm, soft breasts spilling out of her gown, knowing she was within his grasp and more importantly so willing to be grasped by him of all men. 

And yet never had he felt like less of a man before. What could be done to protect her? What could he possibly do to keep her safe from the ever-unfolding horrors of life? Nothing, no more than what he had done so far: Stand by and watch her suffer, only wordlessly pulling back from the edge when she came a little too close to the flames. 

“He’ll send for me tonight,” she said, again mirroring the thoughts inside of him, as if she could read the agony on his face. 

“Aye,” he said again, mouth working cruelly as he gave a fierce glare at his fisted hands in his lap. What else was there to say?

“But I can endure it,” she said, and when he looked up at her, she tilted her chin up with a little with a show of pride that he found heartbreakingly enduring. Even now, with her girlhood dreams in shatters and her home and family torn from her, she was ever a Stark, ever a proud Northern wolf unwilling to cringe under the enemy’s lash. 

This pride frightened him, more than a little bit. He had seen that same pride lead to her father’s beheading. The last thing Joffrey needed was more motivation to inflict harm upon her. 

“Just do as he bids you, little bird,” he said, trying to keep it from sounding like an order and failing. But she didn’t seem to mind his gruff tone, instead giving him a small, sweet half-smile. 

“If his return brings me your return, I care not what his mood may be,” she said, and when his eyes narrowed at the intensity of her statement, she blushed slightly and looked down at her lap, biting her lower lip. 

“Nor do I. Even knowing what it would mean for you, I was never so glad to see the Red Keep on the horizon,” he said finally, hollowly. “And that tells you what kind of man…what kind of dog I may be.” 

He thought his admission would make her see something of the hatefulness inside of him, something of the ugliness inside of him that she was seemingly blind to, but he was mistaken. 

She only made a small, sorrowful sound and then suddenly, spontaneously grabbed his hand and brought it to her soft lips, giving him the gentlest of kisses on his scarred knuckles. He felt his cock fairly jump at the movement and he could not resist the low moan which the innocent kiss pulled from him. 

“Little bird,” he muttered, an utterly foolish response, but he couldn’t fucking think of what else to say, couldn’t say that he felt like his need for her was cutting his fucking heart in half, that the tenderness she awoke inside of his heart felt like the sweetest venom coursing through his veins. Need, tenderness, gentleness—these were not things ever permitted the Hound and not things he ever permitted himself to give either. And yet, here he was, letting this soft little thing hold his hand like he was the one made of glass. 

“You’re as noble a knight as any that are in the songs,” she said. 

He flushed. 

“You are. And if you hadn’t been eager to come back…to come back to me, it would…wound me beyond the telling of it,” she said, in such an earnest, guileless way that he felt like he was being slowly pulled into a spell, feeling his decades of defenses falling at the slightest press of her flesh against his. 

She shifted her body closer to his, turning slightly so that she was facing him. In the new angle, with the sunlight behind her, he could see the gentle bruising of dark circles under her eyes. 

“You haven’t been sleeping,” he said.

Her brows raised for a second, and then she nodded, giving a small, embarrassed shrug. 

“Why is that, little bird?” he asked, lifting his large hand and letting it stroke gently across her fine cheekbone. “In need of a Hound to keep the terrors of the night away?” 

To his surprise, it was her that let out a low, needful moan at that, leaning into his touch and grasping his forearm with both of her hands. “Y-yes,” she said, meekly. “I am.” 

He let out a laugh, surprised at his innocent little bird flirting so brazenly. “Girl, you're a fool to think you would get any rest if you had a Hound in your chambers,” he said, though the thought of a night in her bed filled his mind with images that were worth walking into wildfire for. 

“Come see me tonight,” she said. “After the others are a-bed. Please.” 

He dropped his hand in surprise, letting her clutch his slack hand against her chest. 

“Sandor…please.” 

Unbidden rage gripped him, and he abruptly snatched his hand away from her, standing in a quick motion. 

She nearly toppled forward, but caught herself on the pavement. 

“Ser?” she asked, reverting back to her well-learned manners when troubled or frightened by him, as always. Good, he thought, good. Remember those manners. Remember the rules, little bird. 

“Don’t ever ask me to sign your death warrant again,” he said to her, leaning forward so that he was face to face with her, clutching her around the back of the neck and directing her gaze up to him. “Don’t ever fucking do it. Because I swear to you, girl, I swear to you and the old gods and the new, I will fucking cut off my cock before I ever put it in you.”

She gasped in indignation, a rich coating of pink covering her cheeks. 

“Did your septa ever learn you what men and women do together?" he bit out. "Did she ever learn you that a man would know if his bride was not a maiden? Do you know what would happen to you if maiden's blood wasn't on the King's sheets on your wedding night?” 

Here, tears filled her eyes and begin to slip down her cheeks, and he realized that this grasp around her neck was too tight, much too tight, and she so small and frail and helpless to fight off this unexpected flash of rage. He dropped his hand instantly, instead falling down to his knees in front of her, but still towering over her. 

“Give me…give me your hands, girl,” he said childishly, frantically, trying to find her small hands in the sea of fabric that swirled around her long-sleeved gown. 

She hiccupped through her tears, ignoring him, but he managed to find her soft, shaking fingers all the same and bring them to his chest as he clutched her to him in a helpless way. He had wounded her, and he had meant to, meant to scare her, meant to awaken her to the dangers of what she was suggesting, and yet he had done so in a needlessly cruel and callous way, the same way he did everything. 

“San—Sansa,” he said, tripping over her name, finding it foreign to his tongue, almost too intimate for him to dare speak. “Do you suppose I would put my lust for you above my desire to protect your life? Do you suppose I would come to you in the night, like a sneaking thief, taking my pleasure from you and leaving you to suffer the bloody costs?” 

As his words spilled out of him, she slowly stopped sobbing, only gazing up at him silently as she listened to him with wide, gentling eyes. 

“I know you would never harm me,” she said. “You’re my greatest protector.”

He looked down at that, feeling hate flood his expression at those words. Protector, he was not. Witness to her suffering, mayhaps, but far from a protector. 

She leaned her forehead against his chest, letting out a soft, sad sigh.

“But is it wrong to wish for…to wish that I could…that we could…” Here, her words stopped, her innocence or shyness or something else preventing her from putting his explicit desires into words. 

His heart gripped tightly inside of him. It was he who has assumed she meant a gift of her virginity, that she wanted him to share her bed as a lover. But what did an innocent maid really know of such things? She was only newly a woman, and a sheltered noblewoman at that. He was mistaken to assume her invitation was anything other than a scared girl asking for her hound to keep the nightmares at bay.

"No, sweet girl, it's not wrong," he said shamefacedly, glad she couldn't see into his eyes at that moment. "You're not wrong."

He wished to wrap his arms around her, but he was still clutching her hands between them, his fingers spread like large vines against her small, white forearms. Her skin was as soft as velvet under his hands, and she was warm from the sun, giving him the sensation that a kitten was snuggling against him rather than a full-grown woman. He could smell the vanilla in her hair, the warm musky scent floating around him like a vapor and he closed his eyes in an almost dozy state.

“Come,” she said, “I’m not the only one who hasn’t slept well these last eves.” 

He glanced down at her and saw she was staring at him with a little smile playing on her lips. 

“You’re practically falling over,” she giggled. “And I assuredly could not get you back to the Keep without some kind of black arts.” 

He scoffed a little at that, letting her pull him to a standing position. 

“I know what I’m about,” he said grouchily. “It was just a damned hunting trip.” 

She clucked her tongue in displeasure at him and smoothed her skirts, beginning to lead the way back to the Keep and ignoring his protests.

“I need wine, not a fucking bed,” he complained, and she turned and gave him a stern look. 

He ducked his head down to hide a grin, refusing to let her see the full tremulous pleasure he felt at being pestered by her. Yes, being pestered by Sansa Stark was a wondrous feeling indeed, as keenly pleasurable as any sensation (well, almost any) the Hound could ever recall a woman inspiring in him, and it made him think wildly, hopelessly, at what a fine thing it would be to call this little bird his wife.

It only took half a breath to recall who would be calling her his wife, and hate quickly consumed his momentary pleasure, shackling him once again.


	11. a beautiful queen

As it turned out, the Hound was mistaken. Any sour mood King Joffrey may have been in due to his unsuccessful hunting trip was quickly forgotten thanks to the attentions of one Margaery Tyrell. The brunette beauty wasted no time in making her presence known at court, and although Sansa had to admit she felt pangs of envy and insecurity at seeing how easily and quickly Lady Margaery gained the court’s good favor, her arrival did afford Sansa some much-needed respite from the King’s sadistic games. 

Yes, Lady Margaery was doing Sansa a favor, or so she tried to remind herself as she watched the Highgarden noblewoman being fawned upon by a ring of suitors at King Joffrey’s nameday dinner. 

It was half-past nine, but the festivities were only just beginning, with Lady Margaery seemingly intent on dancing every reel and quadrille until there wasn’t a man in the room who wasn’t in love with her. Her laughter was loud and frequent, audible even over the musicians, and Sansa noted how Cersei seemed as equally consumed as her son with watching the girl as she twisted and turned on her light feet. 

Lady Sansa was too wise after her months at court not to see the machinations behind Lady Margaery’s seemingly effortless charm. And only a blind man could miss the evident desire behind Joffrey’s eyes as he narrowed his beady gaze at her. 

A woman always knows when she’s being replaced, Sansa remembered her mother once saying. And, as in all things, she was beginning to suspect that her mother was very, very right. 

But, if Lady Margaery becomes his new betrothed, what becomes of me? The fear that thought engendered in her was far worse than the fear of being wedded to Joffrey, because as depraved as he was, at least she was well-versed in it. She had no idea what would befall of her if she was pushed aside for Lady Margaery. However, she did know what became of women who Joffrey tired of, what happened to the whores who outlived their usefulness as a king’s consort. 

Sansa’s mouth suddenly felt very dry, and she reached for the wine in the silver goblet in front of her. 

“She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?” Lord Tyrion asked her, giving her a knowing smile as he raised her glass in Lady Margaery’s direction. 

“She’s lovely,” agreed Sansa, quickly, even immediately. It would not do to let anyone suspect that she deemed Lady Margaery a rival, for it was clear that not a single soul in court would choose the daughter of a traitor over a beloved Southron challenger. 

“Very convincing,” said Tyrion in a deep, mocking baritone, waggling his eyebrows at her as he speared another piece of lamb on his fork. 

Sansa glanced in irritation at her tablemate. He was drunk, decidedly so, and had been badgering Sansa to join him in his drunkenness all evening long, but thus far she had stuck to only sipping in moderation. 

“She’s lovely,” repeated Sansa, trying to imbue the words with more graciousness. 

Neither spoke for a moment, and Sansa blushed as she felt Tyrion eyeing her up and down, before relinquishing his gaze. 

“She’s going to make a beautiful queen,” said Tyrion, directing the words to his plate. 

Sansa froze. 

He looked up at her finally, pulling his gaze up to her eyes as if he was unwilling to look at her. 

“You ought to drink more wine, child,” he said unemotionally. “You might be glad of it…glad of it later tonight.”

Her stomach dropped several floors. 

“No, thank you, my lord,” she said stiffly, immovably, even as she felt her thighs shaking beneath her dress. She glanced helplessly over to the royal table where the Hound was standing behind the King in his usual position. 

As if he sensed her desperate gaze, the Hound turned his head almost imperceptibly so he could better see her face from beneath his helmet. His stoic, ferocious expression didn’t change at all, but simply feeling his eyes on her offered her a small shred of comfort, a small talisman of protection to clutch onto as she felt her world spinning away. 

“Don’t look so hopeless, Sansa,” said Lord Tyrion, and this intimate use of her name caught her full attention. She looked back at him, her lips parting in disbelief as he continued:

“The King’s not going to divest you of your head, silly girl,” he said. “He’s shunting you off, to be assured, but not to the executioner’s block. He’s merely giving you away to someone else…someone perhaps as equally undeserving of himself of such a prize as yourself.”

“Giving me away?” she spluttered. “As if I were a pair of trousers or a pet rabbit?” 

Tyrion clucked his tongue. 

“You don’t have to accept, of course,” he said. “But it would look very poor indeed if you refused to prove your loyalty to the crown by doing the king’s bidding.”

Sansa fisted her hands in her silk dress even as she felt her shoulders begin to shrink.

For a moment, they were silent. 

“Are you going to make me ask, ser?” she said in a bitter voice that sounded ages older than her nineteen years. “Are you going to make me beg to know who my new captor shall be?”

Tyrion drained his glass in a practiced gulp. 

“No one too terrible,” he said. “He’s not wedding you off to the Hound or something truly awful.”

Her cheeks flushed pink and terror flashed behind her eyes. Could Joffrey have become alert to the true nature of her relationship with Sandor? Yet if that was so, how were they both still alive? Looking at her fear-stricken face, Tyrion erupted in laughter, clearly misjudging her panicked expression. 

“Come, child,” he laughed. “As I say, it’s not as bad as all that.”

“Who then?” she asked, meaning for the words to come out forcefully but hearing them only as a meek, beaten whisper. 

“Jamie,” said Tyrion flatly. “Jamie Lannister.” 

Sansa blinked. Lifting her gaze, she watched Margaery twist gracefully, her silver gown catching glints of candlelight as she moved across the floor like a sprite. 

“He’s a member of the Kingsguard, it’s impossible,” she said, watching the reel with transfixed eyes, feeling very much as though the room itself was spinning and spinning away from her. 

“Not anymore,” said Tyrion. “Not with one hand, he’s not.” 

“Can I not…can I not…will they not just let me go home?” She asked, chest heaving quickly as her breaths suddenly became harder and harder to find. 

He could have laughed at her. Would have laughed at her at any other time, she knew that, even she could hear the absurdity and childishness in her words. She wasn’t going home. She had no home. She was never leaving here. Not alive. 

“No, child,” he said. “But my brother is not an evil man. He is not…he would not hurt you, as the King would, as the King has.” 

Sansa finally tore her eyes from the reel to look back at the man before her. His expression was truly concerned, empathy radiating from his green eyes as he took in her terrified and confused state. 

“He belongs to the Queen,” she said helplessly. “The Queen would never let…if I…she’ll kill me.”

“It was her idea,” he said. 

She hissed in irritation. “That matters not, and you well know it. She’ll see me drawn and quartered before our first anniversary.”

Tyrion grit his teeth, suddenly seeming very sober as he lowered his voice and reached out to grasp her hand on top of the table. 

“You’ll tread lightly,” he said. “You’ll have to tread very, very lightly. It will be a game, a game with high-stakes, one you may very well lose. But if you’re careful, if you do as she tells you, if you keep being a pretty, obedient dove, you never know…you could outlive us all.” 

Sansa let out a low sigh, twisting her neck and lifting her eyes so that she could shift her gaze to the Hound. He was seemingly taking in the whole of the room, but she knew he was only watching her, as always, his expression unchanged as he held her locked in his line of vision.

But instead of lowering her gaze as she usually would, she steadfastly continued to stare at him.

“My lady?” she heard Tyrion ask. 

Sansa felt warm tears prickling her eyes. Like a child, she felt a hopeless desire to rush across the room and throw herself into the Hound’s arms, to find solace in his huge chest and hide there while he slayed her dragons for her. 

“My lady?” 

What a child she was. So unlike Arya. So weak, so helpless, so useless. This is what she deserved. This was her prison, and she had only herself to blame. Self-hatred clouded her expression and the tears threatened to overflow…But then, the Hound gave only the slightest shake of his head. It was barely perceptible, but it was firm, commanding, and she easily read the message hidden there for her: She instantly looked back at her plate. 

“I would be honored to be the wife of as fine a man as Jamie Lannister,” she said, the words finding her lips before she barely thought them, the practiced hollow grace coming to her like muscle memory. "I would be honored to take any husband the King sees fit to offer me." 

“Very convincing,” said Lord Tyrion, and this time his tone wasn’t mocking or teasing, but gentle. Brotherly, even. 

And then she realized that is exactly what he would be, while her own real brothers were many moons away. 

She reached for her goblet.


End file.
